


With Chalk Covered Hands

by Lachesis_Carole



Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [18]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Changing Perspective Character, F/F, Fodlan Summer Olympics, Gymnastics, M/M, Men’s Gymnastics, Men’s Parallel Bars, Men’s Pommel Horse, POV Third Person Limited, Women's Artistic Gymnastics, Women’s Artistic Floor (Gymnastics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lachesis_Carole/pseuds/Lachesis_Carole
Summary: The Olympics are trying times for everyone involved; contestants struggling to do their best despite their own inhibitions, teammates trying to be supportive despite having few means of assistance, and the audience hoping their favorites win gold despite the fierce competition.Dorothea, Sylvain and Lorenz each find themselves competing for gold, all while attempting to overcome their own monuments of doubt, ego, and expectation.With their chalk covered hands, will they rise to the challenge of their own making, or will they fall shy of achieving their goal?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg & Claude von Riegan, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg & Claude von Riegan, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/His Own Ego
Series: 2020 Fódlan Summer Olympics [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881421
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	With Chalk Covered Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Lina (Beach Volleyball Author) for beta reading this chapter, it really did help.
> 
> Thank you TheUnqualified1 and Avaryss/Ashley for persuading me to be on board for this, I really did enjoy myself.
> 
> Thank you for making it this far, dear readers, I hope you enjoy.~

“Good Morning Garreg Mach! Anna here with co-announcer Seteth Nabatea on this lovely Sunday morning. The time is currently 9:37 as we move our day’s activities to the ever enthralling sport of Gymnastics.” The woman’s smooth voice carried clearly throughout the hallways, gymnasiums, even bathrooms, each phrase being repeated in several languages following each sentence. 

“Well, Anna, as gymnastics have always been my favorite sport to watch during previous Olympic competitions, what specific events do we have planned for the day? Gymnastics is a rather large sport, more an umbrella term here at the Olympics.” A male voice followed shortly after the smooth feminine voice.

“Seteth, you already know this but the audience doesn’t, so the three main events that we are here hosting are the Women’s Artistic Floor, the Men’s Pommel Horse, and the Men’s Parallel Bars.”

“Three riveting events it seems like. Are there any competitors that we should keep our eyes out for today?”

“For three stories to keep your eyes on, today we have, in the Women’s Artistic Floor, Dorothea Arnault from the Adrestian Empire. She grew up in Enbarr, training at the Mittlefrank Gymnastics Company since she could walk, scoring a 15.200 in qualifiers. If her official routine is anything like her qualifiers, then her performance will be breathtaking.

“For Men’s Pommel Horse, we have Sylvain Gautier from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, an impeccable athlete from the border of Fódlan and Sreng, from a long line of Olympic Athletes. 

“Lastly, for the Men’s Parallel Bars, we have Lorenz Gloucester from the Leicester Alliance. He was eligible four years ago, but under mysterious circumstances failed to compete as intended.”

“If I may say anything about this Anna, then it seems to me like he’s gotten an extra four years of practice while going mostly unnoticed, quite the way to avoid the prying eyes and pressure of the media, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course Seteth”

“Now, the events will be starting shortly, best of luck to all competitors today.”

* * *

Claude found himself with an unexpected amount of free time before going to support his old acquaintance at his event later in the day. Leisurely meandering through the rows of audience seating, looking for an opportune spot to sit for the morning’s competitions. Amidst the crowd of slowly bobbing heads, Claude spotted two familiar heads, one with hair the color of cheddar cheese, the other white as a bone. With a slight smirk, he threaded himself in their location, sliding into the spot next to the blond man.

“Did you two miraculously not get sick of each other at those mandatory team captain meetings? Wait... don’t tell me, the two of you are holding a sale on the down low for altered equipment for your teams to do better.”

The blond rolled his eyes, stopping his conversation with the woman to his side while Claude continued.

“Whatever the case is, I hope you aren’t strategizing behind my back, it’s rude to not invite your friends to such meetings.” 

The white haired woman leaned forward to look the Almyran boy in the eye, “Cease your senseless blathering, Claude, just because two people talk while waiting for a sport to start doesn’t mean that they are plotting. It’s not like we could even rig something like the Olympics as it is.”

“Well Edelgard, I am certain that if you wanted to then you and Dima here would be the two capable of doing it.” 

Edelgard sighed at that comment and leaned back into her seat, and after a very pregnant moment of silence, Claude spoke again, “Why are you two sitting together if not to plot the downfall of the Leicester Alliance in the medal competition?”

Dimitri was the one to chime in this time, “If you must know, Edelgard and I are step-siblings. We haven’t seen much of each other since she moved back down to Enbarr, and I took this opportunity to try catching up with her in regards to current happenings in our lives outside of the obvious.” He gestured out with his hand out towards everything around them, courteous of the people around him as to not be visually obstructive. 

“Would you like me to leave then, so you can finish your conversation, then when the competition is about to start, I join back up with you two?”

“If the guilt of interruption is eating away at you like that, then sure. Otherwise you can stay seated,” Edelgard said calmly, this time not leaning to meet his eye. 

With that comment, Claude stood up and walked out to the hallway, purchased three waters and loitered in the halls for a couple minutes, watching more people start filling the audience seats. Once the halls were mostly empty, he walked back in and sat next to Dimitri, handling off the extra bottles of water to him.

Following the small thanks from the other two, Claude watched as a diminutive blonde woman walked to the floor, her introductions were given and her routine started.   


* * *

The air grew still in the gymnasium, the attentive crowds falling into a suspense based silence, all eyes on Dorothea. Several cameras sat there, all peering at different angles, filming every move the gymnast was making, waiting to see any mistake or fumble that she failed to overcome or hide. Each pair of eyes, each camera lens, and each judge, sitting in their specialized seats, behind their monitors, so close to the floor, all seemed to scream in a mostly silent room.

Dorothea stood there, feeling the pressure on her coming from all different angles, before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves.

_ “You’ve got this Doro. Don’t let this get to your head, alright?” _

Only a moment passed before the announcers called out to the room, “And presenting from the Adrestian Empire, Dorothea Arnault.”

_ “TIme to leave them breathless, I suppose.” _

Time seemed to melt away, subtle notes filling the still air with the sound of an old lullabillic melody. Using the notes as a queue, Dorothea ran forward to fall into the routine she had rehearsed so many times, the slight springy nature of the floor beneath her bare feet both a welcome and familiar comfort, a useful means of adding to her natural and trained agility. After gaining enough momentum, Dorothea launched herself into the air, twisting her whole body half a revolution, bending over backwards into a short series of back handsprings before launching up off the springy floor onto a triple pike flip, hand holding the back of her knees with her legs completely straight, landing solidly in the opposite corner than where she had started. 

She spent only a second standing upright, arms up in a presenteery manner,  _ “I think I got that part, hopefully.” _

Instead of dawdling, she lifted her left leg straight up, hugging the knee into her stomach, then leaned back, contorting her body until her left foot was touching the ground below her. Rather quickly she forced her right leg to follow suit, careful not to lose her balance on the ground below her, and immediately jumped off the floor into another backflip. This time she almost completely curled her legs into her and kicked out just before hiring the pad and going into another flip, body perfectly straight and standing upright afterwards .

Now standing just out of one corner of the allotted mat, the one she finished her first tumbling pass, she instead took a few heavy steps towards the closer of the adjacent corner. She attempted to not actually walk, rather to jump into a mid-air splits, land into a forward dive roll, and finally stopped in the intended corner. Careful to orient herself correctly, she bounded forward again, going into the tumbling pass and kicked off with a double pike flip, two flips in the same jump, bouncing off the floor immediately into another flip, this time her body straight, twisting her form three times around in a corkscrew like manner, at the same time as a straight backflip. She landed with only a small hop, her pinkie toe just barely outside bounds when she lifted her arms as the signal of the end of that tumbling run. 

_ “Be more careful, don’t want to lose points for small mistakes.” _ She mentally chided herself, while she barely slid the foot back into the allotted area.

Her feet carried her a couple steps along the side of the floor, stag leaping with both her toes pointed at the ground, then dive rolling into a handstand. Splitting her legs apart, she positioned then to be perpendicular with her form before straightening them up and doing so again twice more at different angles. She launched herself up with her arms, flipping herself upright and using the momentum to jump off the floor and launch into another flip, straight back, to land gracefully on one leg. She curled her left leg up to have the heel touch her waist, spun thrice before rolling backwards again twice to find herself in the corner of the floor with minimal walking required.

_ “Last tumbling run, you got this, only twenty seconds left.” _

With her mental encouragement she bounded forward again going back into the back handsprings of her tumbling routine, two arial spins above the center of the floor, then a couple straight back flips. On the third one, she felt the springboard floor not bounce back as much as she intended, forcing a lower jump for the already started flip. She had known mistakes like this to thoroughly ruin routines for others before her, her own mentor at the Mittlefrank Gymnastics Company had lectured her enough times to try to avoid them, yet there she was, in midair, in too low of a to adequately jump and finish her run.

_ “Goddess please let this be a good idea.” _

She twisted her body around, bent her knees and thrust down her legs to perform an unpracticed bouncing fish maneuver, sending her back three feet to perform it again, this time moving her knees close to her torso, legs spread apart in a double Arabian flip. She landed on the corner, three toes out of bounds just as the lullaby of background music ended.

She took a few deep breaths to cull the anticipation and anxiety forming in her stomach, and walked off the performance floor to her seat along the short wall that separated her from the audience. Cries of cheer and murmurs of the crowd became a singular noise in the background, like it had been before the routine even started.

Time seemed to still entirely, the judges sitting there, deliberating amongst themselves for several minutes. A large series of televisions showed replays of parts of Dorothea’s routine, highlighting the moments where her flips weren’t as high as she had intended. 

_ “Goddess... I scored so low. ” _

Now the screens showed Dorothea’s impromptu bouncing fish, the flip finishing before the screen depicted the current scoreboard. The woman in first place held a firm score of 15.800. Dorothea’s name rose to the top, the score next to her name was 15.850.

_ “Wait, what?”  _ Dorothea looked up at the scoreboard, confirming the scoring of 15.850.

_ “I thought... Didn’t I...” _

Dorothea choked back a cry; a churning of pride, confusion, relief and mental exhaustion tried to bring itself to the surface. She clenched her lips together, pushing the inside of her coiled fingers up to her mouth in a futile attempt to hold back her cry, her eyes welling and leaking the second her lips broke into a smile. 

_ “I can’t believe it, I actually won.” _

From her chair and through blurry vision, Dorothea’s smile raised with her gaze, her eyes meeting the magenta ones of an ecstatic Petra looking directly at her from the front row of the audience. Along with her beam, she offered a small wave that was matched, though the smile was very full in comparison to Dorothea’s own small smile. Ladislava strode over to her, regardless of what her words of encouragement were saying, the words themselves were drowned out by the crowd’s applause and cheers. 

She pulled Dorothea into a hug and simply said, too close to not be heard, “You did good, Dorothea. I am proud of you.”

* * *

“What can I say, Claude? The Adrestian Empire has some of the best athletes. It’s as simple as that.” The smug comment was planned, as everything involving Edelgard was, though she still enjoyed watching the Leicesterian Rower squirm as much as he did at a shot across the bow.

“Yeah, well, just wait until you watch Lorenz’s performance. I bet both of you twenty dollars that when they introduce him, you will both laugh, and then be simply amazed at what he can do on the parallel bars. Just you wait.”

“We’ll be laughing? At what?” Dimitri’s turn to chime in came as he held open the door from the East Side Gymnasium awkwardly behind himself, before letting go when the person behind him took the door. “Wouldn’t it be disrespectful to laugh at an olympian before their sport?”

“Under normal circumstances? Yes, but under this one, Dima? No. Any takers on the bet?”

“Then sure, and you Edelgard?”

“Yes, but only to prove you wrong. I promise you now I will not laugh.”

“Good luck with that.”

* * *

Sylvain sat there, leaning against his blunét sitting next to him on the uncomfortable metal chair in the hallways. A timer rang out in the hall.

“All male gymnastic contestants please report to the West Side Gymnasium, All male gymnastic contestants please report to the West Side Gymnasium,” an artificial voice rang out of wall mounted speakers, repeating the message in several more languages; the last, Srengese, being the only other language Sylvain had recognized with the following repeat messages. Still, he sat there, unmoving in the comfort of his companion. 

“Sylvain.” 

“Ugh, do I have to, Felix?”

“Yes. Somehow beyond comprehension, you convinced everyone that you didn’t need to be warming up, so you napped on me the entire waiting period you had.” Felix said as he nudged Sylvain upright before handing up himself. “I hate to say it, but you don’t want to end up like your brother. Don’t miss your shot like he did.”

Sylvain gave his boyfriend a small smile, standing up simultaneously, “Kiss for luck?”

“And to distract you? No. But...” Felix leaned down slightly, and lightly pressed his lips to Sylvain’s forehead, “That’s for luck. Now, don't be late.”

Sylvain rushed off, only a few feet away from the competitor’s entrance, leaving Felix alone in the hallway for a few moments before the masses of the audience from the East Side Gymnasium came pouring out. 

Sylvain was ushered in to be fully prepared for his event, sitting in a group of others simply for categorical purposes, a means of ensuring every contestant was present. Final notes of qualifiers were taken and the order of performances was announced. He sat, watching the competitors perform their intricate routines, taking mental notes from the speeds of the gymnasts to the difficulty of each routine. 

Seven. Seven performances all before Sylvain had his shot. He stood there, wrists wrapped in the Velcro and fabric braces common to his sport, rubbing the big chalk block over his hands in an attempt at calming his slowly rising nerves. 

_ “So, Albrecht von Malnesch has gold with a 15.725, I can beat that, no sweat.” _

Several queues were given, judges looking at him with anticipation. Pointed waves from production staff and other gymnasts that had already gone had Sylvain moving towards the pommel horse before he felt like he was adequately prepared for the event.

_ “When have you ever been ready?” _

He pushed the thought out of his mind, signalling the judges with the single hand raised as he listened for the distinct sound of the buzzer, before he walked over to the leather and wooden construct. While his torso touched the side of the apparatus, he grabbed the two metal rings affixed to the top, legs pressed together perfectly straight, and pushed up with his arms, fully extending his form upright, perfectly vertical. Then, he lowered his paired legs, forming an acute angle between his feet and his arms’ trajectory, and rotated his legs around the length of the pommel horse, mindful of the consistent distance between his legs and the device. His hands let go of the rings to allow his legs to speed through, alternating his entire weight between his two arms, feeling the strain of his entire form with each movement in each forearm. A familiar, almost comforting strain, but a strain nonetheless. 

After seven rotations he let go of the pommels and, using the momentum his legs had created, slowly traveled from one side of the pommel horse to the other, hands flat on the chalk covered leather, almost gripping the edges to not let his hands slip off. After making it down to the first end, he stopped momentarily, changing the direction of his spinning legs, and traveled down to the other end before forcing himself upright again, hands his shoulders’ width apart. Twisting his body around as he did so, he moved himself back towards the center between the pommels, bent his arms slightly, and pushed up just enough to lose contact with the horse grabbing both pommels on his way down again.

Quiet claps and hushed murmurs passed through the gymnasium; the pure act of cockiness was seemingly approved. 

_ “Nailed it.” _

From his new position, he spread his legs and swung his torso down, bringing the pommel horse to fit in the gap between his legs, the leather barely grazing the inside of his left thigh as he alternated his weight again. He moved a single hand to the dead center of the pommel horse after the third scissoring motion with the apparatus, pulled his body upright, rigid and straight, then lowered himself off the side, a slow flip backwards for his dismount. Arms sore, he raised them up to signal the judges again of the ending of his routine; once given the signal of acknowledgement, he began undoing the velcro of his braces on his wrists and sat down in his chair, finally letting himself take a deep breath. 

Moments passed by as the overhead screens replayed moments of his performance, though Sylvain intentionally ignored it, an impatient nature kicking in as he waited. Personal experience had him stressing more after replays than the vastness that is not knowing every flaw he made. He’d be informed later as it was, what was the point of the incredibly more harsh and damaging self critique?

The screens shifted, Sylvain’s score of 15.450 landing him in second.

Quietly and to himself, Sylvain muttered, “Well, silver isn’t something to scoff at, Father should still be proud... Hopefully.”

* * *

Chatter and events passed through the morning and into the afternoon. Edelgard, Claude and Dimitri spoke idly between routines, the gymnasts moving from the pommel horse to the Men’s Rings, back to a Women’s vault, bringing the day to close out with the final event of Men’s Parallel Bars. 

“If you’re just tuning in, we’d like to welcome you to the Men’s Parallel Bars in the 2020 Olympics at Garreg Mach.” Seteth’s low tone filled the gymnasium, the script obviously targeted at the televised audience, though it seemed to work for the individuals trickling into the spectator’s seating inside the gymnasium.

Rhea’s voice chimed in, “Among the contestants for this sport today, we have the famed Wig Snatcher himself, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, returning to the sport after fading away three years ago following a competition in the Leicester Alliance.”

The remainder of the preamble was drowned out by laughs and chuckling from the audience, Edelgard herself giving out a snort and Dimitri laughing quietly to himself at the introduction to the famed athlete. 

After taking a moment to compose herself, Edelgard looked towards Claude, who wore a sly grin on his face, “And I take it you know the story behind this?”

“I do for those who give me my  _ rightfully  _ earned twenty dollars.” With a roll of their eyes, Dimitri and Edelgard both slide him the handful of bills to meet the request, “So, the story behind the famed Wig Snatcher.

“Back in the day, the most... notable, gymnastics judge, Ambroys something or rather, his last name started with a J, was  _ the _ judge to have for the high ranking gymnastics meets, the ones where they expect the kids to go to the Olympics and do well. Well, Mr. J was also known to have a very awful, poorly fitted toupee in a laughable attempt at covering his very bald head.

“During one of Lorenz’s performances when he was fourteen or so, he did this routine that left Ambroys completely breathless, shocked and otherwise just staring. A young kid thought it’d be funny, which it was, to take off the guy’s toupee, and gave it to Lorenz when he was going to go sit down to wait for his score. Ambroys flipped out and thought that Lorenz had been the one to take it, and called him a wig snatcher.”

“And the name stuck?” Dimitri asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Well, the Olympic Officials called him by that name, so probably.”

“You are insufferable.”

* * *

The parallel bars were his best event, the rings almost too restrictive and the pommel horse was too awkward for the natural grace Lorenz wore like a king wears a mantle. The bending of the bars on their stands was all too common a nuisance, one he had mastered and turned to his advantage. He knew all eleven feet of the apparatus, both bars positioned eight inches above his head. 

He patiently waited as the few competitors before him did their routines, almost struggling to hold back his own commentary on each one, though there was no class to the mockery of those he deemed lesser than him in skill. That would both be a slight on their honor and achievement, as well as a severe gash to his own, tainting his natural talent with petty arrogance and a haughty superior attitude. He couldn’t damage his own reputation with pointed remarks, regardless of how true the claims were in his eyes.

Four other gymnasts came and went before him, until Lorenz found himself on the five and a half inch springboard, hands clutching the two inch thick bars as if his life depended on it, and lifted himself up. The second his feet left the board, it was quickly moved out of the way, presumably for the next competitor, though Lorenz didn’t think there would be much point to continuing the event, even if he would never admit it out loud. 

He found a deep satisfaction in the precision of his movements, legs seemingly glued together, knees locked to remain perfectly straight as he lifted his entire body to be as straight as his legs, holding the self proclaimed perfect handstand for the required two seconds before bending his elbows, arching his back to swing his legs forward into a common front flip. He grabbed the two bars at the tips, just past the vertical poles keeping them aloft, as he lifted himself back up into his handstand. He let go with one hand, pivoting his whole body around to have the whole length of the bars before him. Instead of grabbing the second bar again, he lifted his knee locked legs before him, folding himself almost in half, and with his single hand lowered his form, using the more rigid nature of the tip of the bar to execute another front flip. His body was still folded, and rather than grab the two bars with both hands, his pride dictated that he maintain the single handed theme for the time being. He grabbed the bar with his other hand, letting the first one rest as he reaffirmed his position on the bars with the upright, single handed handstand. With the two seconds now gone, he finally let his smile break though.

Lorenz pivoted again, using both hands to hold onto the same bar, and folded himself once more, feeling a small pop in the left knee, the strain of keeping it locked releasing an unpopped air bubble. While the initial pain was instant and subtle, Lorenz powered though, his smirk unfazed by the injury, a deeper part of him worried though unable to show the concern. Something he learned when he was younger was that pain was inadequacy leaving the body, may as well believe that for as long as he could get away with it.

From his folded position he swung under the bar, flipping once, grabbing the second bar only sixteen inches away with his hands, rotating around the bar once to reaffirm his grip. He then transferred his second hand to the other bar, lowering his body down, performing a short series of front flips back to the tip of the parallel bars. Each jostle from the grabbing of the bars made his knee ache, little by little, not something he was concerned with. Not anymore. From the tip of the bars, he pivoted again, facing the center of the apparatus, and lowered himself , arching his back as much as it was willing to send himself into the highest jump he could muster, to perform three backflips before grabbing the center of the two bars again, the momentum bending the bars down significantly and flipping Lorenz around twice before he found it manageable to return to his upright position.

_ “Now just stick the landing and you’ve got gold.” _

With that thought, he lowered himself again, and flipped over the side of the bars, clutching his calves to his thighs, his thighs to his chest, the pain in the left knee now more noticeable. He extended his legs, both feet hitting the mat beneath him. Lorenz’s mind filled for a moment, a few seconds of an almost serene silence, at least the perception of a moment. The instant his feet both landed on the mat beneath him, his left foot slid forward, the knee bending backwards before it slammed into the ground itself. 

_ “No! How could I... Not again! Goddess make the pain stop!” _

Immediately, cameras began to flick off with a cry of anguish from the Leicesterian contestant, official cameras at the very least, the hundreds of faces in the crowd beginning to be illuminated by a pale blue light from phones being used to film, the crowd’s features showing shock with the almost collective gasp and held breaths. Amidst the eerie silence, a deep, primal, pained cry shook the gymnasium again as Lorenz struggled on the ground, instinctually trying to straighten the backwards bent leg, the muscles refusing to comply. The knee was bent completely backwards, the lower leg just shy of perpendicular with the rest of his leg. Medics ran to the floor, gurney in hand and slowly lifted the injured Lorenz onto it and carried him off to a more useful facility for the injury, Lorenz screaming out in pain until he fell back on the gurney, too exhausted to react anymore.

* * *

“And there you have it. The 2020 Fódlan Olympic Gymnastics have come to an end, and what a show it was. Seteth, if you’ll give the breakdown on medals?”

“Thank you Anna, first for the Women’s Artistic Floor, we have Dorothea Arnault of the Adrestian Empire with gold, Maeve d'Aubigny of Sreng with silver, and Agatha Montessuri of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus with bronze.

“For Men’s Pommel Horse, we have Albrecht von Malnesch of the Adrestian Empire with gold, Sylvian Gautier of the Royal Kingdom of Faerghus with silver, Sigmund Völsung from the Adrestian Empire with bronze.

“For Men’s Rings, we have Kristoff Gelsson of Garreg Mach with gold, Ludwig von Turing of the Adrestian Empire with silver, and Ivar Bringlebeck of Sreng with bronze.

“For Women’s Vault, we have Runa Brynhild of Sreng with gold, Eluia Meltrol of Morfis with silver, Kynthia Lindaul of Dagda with bronze.

Lastly, for Men’s Parallel Bars, we have Lykos Zepharah of Dagda with gold, Manfred von Ethos of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus with silver, Steffan Heinz of the Adrestian Empire with bronze and local fan favorite, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester of the Leicester Alliance in last place.”

“Such a shame about Lorenz too, really looked like he had it.”

“Well, these were not the last events for the 2020 Olympics here at Garreg Mach, so stay tuned for more of the much anticipated sports events to come.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whoop, I hope you enjoyed that. I know this is the final week, but please stay tuned for the last handful of chapters, and I hope you have enjoyed the ride.  
> If you want to keep up to date with my writing, please follow @LachesisCarole on Twitter, when I am actually working on a project that is. 
> 
> I also strongly encourage that you all read the fanfics of everyone else who was part of this project, they are all pretty great.


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